The Hidden Hand

Carroll John Daly

Description

Race Williams had run across criminals before, and a few shots to the head always took care of such threats. But how can Race deal with four separate rogues at once? And what of their ultimate leader, The Hidden Hand? Story #19 in the Race Williams series.



Carroll John Daly (1889–1958) was the creator of the first hard-boiled private eye story, predating Dashiell Hammett's first Continental Op story by several months. Daly's classic character, Race Williams, was one of the most popular fiction characters of the pulps, and the direct inspiration for Mickey Spillane's Mike Hammer.

Sujets

• Hard boiled
• Popular culture
• Detective
• Private investigator
• Mystery
• Black Mask
• Mickey Spillane
• Raymond Chandler
• Dashiell Hammett
• Mike Hammer
• Pulp Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Black Mask
• Date de parution: 12 novembre 2017
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9788827516058
• Langue: English

Extrait

The Hidden Hand

Race Williams book #19

A Black Mask Classic

by
Carroll John Daly

Black Mask
Copyright Information

© 2017 Steeger Properties, LLC. Published by arrangement with Steeger Properties, LLC, agent for the Estate of Carroll John Daly.

Publication History:
“The Hidden Hand” originally appeared in the June–October, 1928 issues of Black Mask magazine.

No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the publisher.

“Race Williams” is a trademark of the Estate of Carroll John Daly. “Black Mask” is a trademark of Steeger Properties, LLC, and registered with the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office.
The Hidden Hand

Chapter 1
The Man With the Gun
To simply say that business was dull would be the height of optimism. To say that my bank account was low would be to agree with my bank balance. To say that all the crooks in the city had ceased work would not be the truth. But to say that those unfortunate people who now fell victims of earlier indiscretions did not come to me for help would be wholly the truth. Business was dull.
“Private Detective” best describes me to the ignorant and those who have not had use for such animals. The words themselves are not so bad but I don’t like the music that most detective agencies set those words to. There are honest private detectives, of course—but there are honest politicians, too. Get the point? Something like hen’s teeth—very scarce, indeed. But I just don’t like the label. Race Williams—Private Investigator is smeared in big, gold, unashamed letters all over my office door. The “Private Detective” appears on my license only. Nice distinctions are not drawn by civil bodies.
People—especially the police—don’t understand me. And what we don’t understand we don’t appreciate. The police look upon me as being so close to the criminal that you can’t tell the difference. Oh, I’ve got my pride like the rest of us. I’d like to be famous, but I guess, after all, I’m only notorious. Every cop in the great city has my reputation hammered into him as a gun and a killer.
No use to go into detail on that point. I carry a gun—two of them, for that matter. As to being a killer, well—I’m not a target, if you get what I mean. I’ve killed in my time, and I daresay I’ll kill again. There—let the critics of my methods paste that in their hats.
Now, with business dull and a strong dislike for private detective agencies, I was thinking seriously of accepting a position from one of these very agencies. It was an open and shut affair that had been offered me the night before by Gregory Ford, a well-known operator. He just spilt his story and named his figure as he stood in the doorway.
“It’s a dull season,” he said. “A cold winter and your chance to go South. The State’s paying me well, time won’t hang heavy on your hands—and if we can pin these crimes on McCleary, I’ll give you a handsome piece of change.” And when I would have refused, just on general principles, he held up his hand. “And that isn’t all of it, Race Williams—not by half, it isn’t. This will turn out the biggest grab in the country. The feared name of McCleary is built on blood and murder—but mark my words: He’ll turn out to be a pawn in the game. If we can make him holler, buy him, or knock a squeal out of him—we’ll lay our hands on the biggest brain that ever backed a crime ring. Organized crime used to be for fiction—but since bootleggers came into the game it’s nothing but big business; the business of robbery and murder. Liquor running is simply petty larceny to some of the things those boys in Florida are pulling off.” The hand he waved in the air turned into a fist now. “If we catch the big gun behind McCleary, I’ll cut you in for ten per cent of the melon, and there’ll be a hundred a day in it for you while we’re warming up.”
I just shook my head. I don’t like to work with private detectives. I always play a lone hand.
“Times aren’t so good for you, Race.” He jerked his slouch hat down over his eyes like a stage detective. “The police in the city are beginning to watch your stunts. Take a few months off—give them a chance to forget you. I’ll tell you—if it’s you that knocks McCleary off his spot I’ll add in one grand as a bonus.” Gregory Ford swung on his heels, called once over his shoulder—“If you change your mind give me a ring in the morning. I’m sailing in the afternoon on the Cherry to Miami.”
And that’s the thing I had on my chest as I walked through the lobby of the hotel and entered the dining-room for lunch. I could think better on a full stomach, and I have yet to see the day when I couldn’t stick my hand in my pocket and wrap my fingers around a hundred or two.
I sat with my back to the wall. Put it down to fear of drafts, if you like, but it’s the best medicine I know of as a preserver of health—at least, my health. There are too many boys who’d be glad to put a bullet in my back.
It was just my pride that kept me from working with a private agency. And Gregory Ford—well—he wasn’t the worst of them.
I looked suddenly up over my coffee and saw the man crossing the dining-room. Somehow, I got the impression that he didn’t belong. The neat fitting blue suit and the flashy tie didn’t help him any. It’s part of my business to study faces, and I marked this boy for a lad who had a date with the undertaker. The pasty yellow of his sunken cheeks stood out vividly on each side of the hollows which held the dead eyes. The walk, too—his knees had a give to them as if he walked a tight rope. But he acted quickly enough as he jerked sideways and flopped into the seat across the table from me.
I smiled over at him. Here was a client. Here would be a case that would keep me from feeling bad about turning down Gregory Ford’s offer. And the man spoke.
“You’ll keep both your hands on the table.” He fairly gasped the words. “If you move a finger I’ll shoot—there’s a gun covering you from beneath the table. I care nothing for my own life.”
His eyes burned across at me now. The left hand, that he laid upon the table, trembled and the fingers twitched spasmodically. My left hand slid further back beneath the napkin it held. My right hand clutched at the fork. I had sized up this bird as a client—and now he turned out to be the heavy villain in the piece.
I had not seen the gun as he slid into the seat. Now, I put my feet close together and raised my knees noiselessly beneath the table, protecting my body from the lead if the fingers of his right hand closed upon the trigger. It was ten to one that he wouldn’t miss. He wouldn’t kill me though. It don’t take me very long to reach, draw and shoot. But he certainly would cripple me for some time. This wasn’t any bluff of a cheap gunman. The set, dry lips and sunken cheeks told the story. He had entered that dining-room and dropped into the seat opposite me for one purpose. To kill me. The flickering lips and trembling fingers upon the table were of excitement, not fear. This was a dangerous man.
But he wanted to talk—and now his quivering lips found it hard to form the words. The game was new to him. Yet, instinctively, I knew that he was determined to see it through nevertheless. So I ran in a little conversation of my own. Time was the thing! This wouldn’t be the first lad who’d talked himself out of digging my grave.
“You want to talk to me—to be sure I’d listen. That’s the reason for the gun—isn’t it?” I’d help him talk. And get time to figure out the best way of disarming this emaciated, disease-racked boy.
“Yes, I want to—to talk.” He coughed, a rattling sort of cough that shook his whole body. My eyes narrowed. If he did that again I could reach out and— But I dismissed that thought.
“I am a dying man.” Upper teeth bit into a lower lip. “A few months at the best. I have a wife—a child. Will I die and see them starve?”
I moved my right hand slightly toward the edge of the table. Those burning eyes detected the movement.
“If you do that again,” and his voice was strangely calm, “I’ll fire.” My hand remained motionless. The youth nodded. “That I can possibly escape has never entered my mind—but I should like to talk to you a moment. Many men would sacrifice their bodies for those they love,” and his eyes glowed while he spoke—but always they were on me, “but few would sacrifice their souls. I have been offered money to kill you—much money—that they, my wife and child, will have. God forgive me, but—”
It was an interesting moment. I half braced myself for the shot that would come. And I was strongly tempted to go for my own gun to make sure he would get only one shot. But that he would shoot was not certain yet—wouldn’t be certain until I heard the roar of his gun. And the flickering lips told me the reason he waited. Murder was new to him. He wanted to talk up his waning courage—wanted to excuse to himself his